


Rain Falling Down

by wbss21



Category: Crimson Peak - Fandom
Genre: Adult abuse, Bullying, Child Abuse, Coercion, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Isolation, Manipulation, Mental Abuse, Neglect, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-27 18:45:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5059879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wbss21/pseuds/wbss21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was only each other they had ever known.  Only each other they had ever had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Soo, obviously, this story is going to contain spoilers for "Crimson Peak" as well as scenes of child abuse, physical, mental, emotional and sexual. So if that's not something you're okay with, you should probably not read this.

When Thomas comes to, it is to the sound of Lucille screaming.

They are not the sounds of a child terrified, as his had been. They are screams of rage and disgust and hatred.

Still, it makes his blood run cold and his panic rise, knowing without needing to see the cause of his sister's distress, knowing he has to... has to help... has to do something. She's his sister, and he can't let this happen. Not again. 

Only when he goes to sit up from his prone position, the world spins round him in nauseating circles, a throbbing, keen agony through his skull where his father had struck him repeated blows, his small frame already stiff from the man's viciously strong hands holding him down, his bottom and the backs of his thighs burning like fire where the switch had thwacked him until he'd been sure he would vomit from the pain.

He falls back with a near inaudible groan, tears of frustration and fear already prickling against his eyes.

Even if he could get up, he knows, there's nothing he could do. Nothing he could do to help Lucille, nothing he could do to stop their father.

Lucille... Lucille was the only one who could ever stop anything. Lucille was so strong, and so brave, and he... he was just...

A desperate sob lodges in his throat, remembering with sudden vividness his father's words to him before he'd begun the thrashing.

“You pathetic, useless child! Look at you, disgusting weakling! You may just as well have been born a girl for all the man there is in you! Worthless, stupid boy!”

His father was right, of course. Thomas was worthless, and stupid, and weak. He couldn't do anything right, could never make Father proud, could never protect Lucille. Not the way Lucille protected him.

His sister was like an angle. Warm and safe and kind. She said to him kind things about himself. Told him he was beautiful, and perfect. She would touch him with gentle hands, sooth the hurts Father would give with soft fingers and featherlight kisses.

Thomas knew she was protecting him then, as she was protecting him now. Though his father had beaten him blind and senseless before Lucille could reach them, he hadn't needed consciousness to know she'd come because of his cries, come to distract Father off from him and onto her.

Oh, how he wishes she wouldn't. Wishes she wouldn't provoke Father the way she does, with spitting, resentful words. Wishes he could find the strength to push himself to his feet and throw himself over her, take the blows for her...

But he can't... he's weak... his limbs won't obey him... won't work... and he's scared. He's so scared, and he begins to cry in earnest then, hating his own helplessness... hating the sounds of his sisters enraged screams and of her suffering.

It seems to last an eternity, but in truth, Thomas knows, it's only a few, short minutes, and then it's over, and there is only the sound of his muffled sobs against his knees, filling the space of the attic.

He doesn't hear Lucille approach, doesn't see her for how his face is buried, and so he startles badly when her hand falls along his shoulder, and he gasps loudly, flinching back.

“Shhh,” she shushes him quietly, her hands cupping his cheeks, pulling his face up to look at her.

There's bruising already covering both her eyes, and an abrasion across the bone of her right cheek, her lower lip split and swollen.

The sight of her only makes Thomas cry harder, and she bends down, pressing her lips against his, shushing him again.

It works to calm him some. 

Thomas understands this is a good thing, that kissing like this is Lucille's way of letting him know everything is alright, will be alright. It's like a hug. She's explained to him. It's meant to make him feel safe, and it does.

Sometimes it feels funny. The feel of Lucille's mouth against his. It's odder still when she sticks her tongue in his mouth, and tells him to stick his in hers. Sometimes Thomas thinks he doesn't really like it, or want to do it. But that's only sometimes. And Lucille tells him it's a good thing, so Thomas knows it is. Knows Lucille knows better than him.

Finally she pulls back, resting down on her knees and looking carefully at him, her hands still cupping his face, turning his head this way and that.

“My beautiful brother.” She says softly, voice sad. “The bastard. Did he hurt you very badly?”

Thomas swallows, shame burning at his cheeks, and he closes his eyes.

“I'm sorry.” He whispers, voice unsteady. 

He feels his sister press a kiss to his forehead then, and he opens his eyes, looking up at her.

“You have nothing to apologize for Thomas.” She tells him, smiling gently. 

Fresh tears threaten in the boys eyes, and he shakes his head.

“You w-wouldn't have been thrashed if I w-wasn't such a disappointment to him.” He breathes, voice wobbling badly. 

“It's my duty to take care of you Thomas.” Lucille tells him, still smiling. “I'll always protect you. You know that, don't you?”

Thomas nods weakly, feeling sick inside. He doesn't want Lucille to get hurt. He isn't worth it anyway.

“Can you stand?” She asks, pushing herself to her own feet with so much ease, and Thomas finds himself staring up at her in awe. He wishes he could be as her. Wishes he could be as strong. Father must have beaten her nearly as hard, yet she shows no sign of it beyond the bruises marring her skin.

Thomas knows he'll never be what his father wants, never make his father proud. But maybe it doesn't matter, if he can make Lucille proud instead. If he can show her he's strong. If she believes it of him, than it must be true.

And so he gathers himself together, and pushes himself up, just like her. Puts all his strength into standing. 

For a moment, he thinks he'll manage it. Thinks he can stand, can even walk.

A wave of happiness washes through him, knowing Lucille will be so proud of him. Only the moment is short lived, as in an instant, he feels the strength rush out of him completely, his knees collapsing beneath him like small sticks, and he crumples back to the floor, a broken and useless heap.

He can't help the fresh tears which well instantly in his eyes, nor the strangled sob which chokes his throat. Shame burns brighter still in him, and he curls in on himself, wanting to hide, to be away.

Where Father would thrash him though for his weakness, Lucille only shushes him gently, bending down and slipping her arm round his back, under his arms.

“It's alright.” She tells him, lifting him up and supporting his weight near fully. Clinging to her, Thomas manages this time to keep his footing, though his legs feel useless, threatening to give out any moment. Lucille doesn't let him fall.

She's bigger than him, taller and stronger. She takes care of him.

“Come. I'll give you a bath. Yes?”

Thomas responds with pressing his face to her side and nodding.

Their bath is only a galvanized tub, and Lucille has to fetch the water from their parent's room, the effort taking several trips.

She tells Thomas to wait for her by the tub, and he does. He'd thought before about undressing, taking the burden of it off his sister, but Lucille had told him not to, that it was her responsibility, and so Thomas stands clothed. Lucille doesn't like it when he does things she's told him not to. She gets upset, and Thomas knows it's because she's afraid for him. She wants to make certain he's safe.

When the bath is ready, then, Lucille undresses him, gently and carefully. 

She kisses each bruise that's already begun to form along his small body. Kissing it better, is what she calls it. Thomas squirms, though he knows he's supposed to keep still, and he tries, but it's difficult. Lucille then simply holds him still, her hands gripping firmly but not painfully along his upper arms as she presses her lips along the ugly abrasions and bruising running along his left side, spreading across his abdomen. It hurts. The bruising hurts and is already swollen, and it's all Thomas can do not to move.

He doesn't want to disappoint Lucille too. He wants to be brave for her at least.

Still, it's a relief when finally his sister helps him into the tub, the warm water helping to sooth the stiffness and radiating agony of where his father had beaten him.

Lucille strips off her own clothes and gets into the tub following, and Thomas feels his eyes welling up again at the sight of her battered and bruised form. Father beat her hard, and it's his fault. It's always his fault. 

“I'm sorry.” He says, voice strained with barely repressed sobs. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't cry baby brother.” Lucille tells him, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him against her. “Here, kiss mine better.”

Thomas wipes clumsily at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“I don't want to hurt you.” He says feebly.

Lucille laughs softly.

“You won't. Come, it's alright.”

Thomas does as he's told, following after his sister, the way she's shown him, kissing all her bruised and broken skin. Lucille, Thomas thinks, is much better at doing this right than he is. She doesn't squirm at all. In truth, she seems even to relax, sinking back against the edge of the tub, her lips curling into a soft smile as she watches him with her eyes.

Her hand comes up, carding delicately through his hair, fingers scratching at his scalp.

“You're beautiful Thomas.” She tells him. “Here. Like I taught you, remember? Like Teresa.”

Thomas does remember, and so he moves his mouth to Lucille's chest. It isn't like Teresa’s. It's flat, like his own, and no milk ever comes out from her nipples. He isn't sure then why his sister asks him to do this. But it seems to make Lucille happy, and Thomas wants that for her. Wants her happiness. It's so rare to see her smile at all these days.

This makes her smile, her hand against the back of Thomas' head, encouraging him forward, pressing his face close.

He feels her other hand then, against the inside of his thigh, shifting up, her fingers brushing against his penis, before wrapping round it. 

Thomas stops, confused.

This is new, and he isn't sure what to do. Lucille hasn't told him.

“Lucille...?” he starts, questioning, a vague feeling of apprehension building in his chest, though he doesn't know why. Lucille loves him, would never hurt him. It feels strange though, her hand there. He wants to shift away, but his sister hasn't told him to do so, and so he sits still, heart beating hard against his ribs.

“It's alright.” She tells him quietly. “This is good.”

He blinks at her, confused only more.

“Do I...” he starts, unsure even of what it is he wants to ask.

But his sister only smiles kindly at him, cupping his cheek and leaning forward, kissing him against the mouth.

“Just be still, as you're doing. I want to feel you baby brother.”

And so, again, he does as he's told, though the effort is great when Lucille begins shifting her hand, her fingers kneading and rubbing. The sensation is odd, uncomfortable but also in a way nice. There's a strange warmth which seems to spread from between his legs, up into his gut. He bites his lip as the sensation intensifies, the effort growing more difficult. 

“Lucille...” he starts again, worried and confused, not understanding what's happening.

“Do you like it Thomas?” She asks, disrupting him.

Thomas swallows, his arms coming up round himself.

He doesn't know. It feels funny to him, and he thinks for a moment he'd rather Lucille stop. But he can't say that.

“I... I guess.” He says instead.

Lucille smiles, and Thomas knows he's said the right thing.


	2. Chapter 2

Thomas sits with his back against her chest, her arms wrapped round his small frame, holding him close. She rests her chin along his crown, leaning her lips down every now and then to kiss him along his soft tresses. 

Her beautiful, perfect brother. He's finally managed to fall asleep, nestled with her upon the bed. She loves the feel of him, limp and fragile in her arms. He is so vulnerable, and Lucille knows it is her duty to keep him safe. Knows it is her only, true purpose. 

Still, she knows all too often how deeply she fails at it. Father... their hideous, cruel father...

How cruelly he treats Thomas, day in and day out. 

His regard for her is less than nothing, as if he does not even see her. On days, of course, his brutal temper turns towards all those in his presence, and she feels the wrath of his hatred. But it is Thomas whom Father feels true contempt for, whom he directs the full breadth of his foulness upon, beating him mercilessly and to senselessness near every day.

Lucille does what she can to stop it, staying as often as she can by his side, and spitting words towards Father to provoke, to turn his attention from her brother onto her instead. 

Sometimes it works. More often, it does not. Not with him. With Mother, she finds more success. But then, it is her Mother hates most.

Thomas doesn't understand. Her brother is simple, and sweet. Too sweet for the ugliness of the world. He doesn't know how to protect himself. Isn't at all able. And so it is her duty.

At times, then, Lucille finds her own frustration at her brother mounting, that he doesn't understand. That he at times even questions her. 

She can't have that. Can never have that. Does he not see it is for his own good? Everything she does. It's for him. How can she protect him if he disobeys her? If he doesn't do as she says? 

She's broken from her thoughts at the sound of a soft whimper, and glancing down, she sees Thomas squirming slightly in her grip, and realizes a moment later her fingers are digging sharply into his fragile arms.

“Lu... Luc-cille...” he whines weakly, and she releases her grip, slipping her arms round his chest instead and kissing his crown once more, shushing him.

“It's alright.” She says. 

He fusses and sniffles a few moments longer, before finally beginning to settle again, relaxing back against her.

He's exhausted, worn thin and frail. He's never had her strength, never had her determination to keep going. It both enrages and terrifies her to think on the number of times Thomas has been struck by deathly fever, how close those times he's come to death. Terrified at the thought of losing him... enraged at the thought he might ever think it alright to leave her.

“You'll never leave me Thomas.” She says, squeezing him tighter against her. “Promise me you'll never leave me.”

Her brother is already half back asleep, his breathes coming deep and slow. It takes him longer than it should to answer, and Lucille for a moment feels fury. 

“Promise me Thomas.” She hisses.

“... I p-promise.” He whispers back finally, voice quavering.

Lucille smiles then, again kissing his crown, bending forward and kissing his cheek.

“Good.” She whispers back. “Good brother.”

//

James glares down at the boy, his lip curled in disgust.

Thomas, his son. The acknowledgment of it in his mind alone is enough to set his blood to boiling and a profound shame to well up from his gut, nearly choking him in it's intensity.

His son, his boy, a pitiful, pathetic nothing, weak and girlish in his frailty and manner. James felt repulsed by him, enraged to be associated with him at all. Furious that the child would sully his good name so with his failure.

And there Thomas stands now, looking up at him with those big, sad eyes of his, pleading and hopeful, and James is nearly overcome with the desire to lay the back of his hand against the boy's stupid face, knock him to the floor and sink his boot into his stomach.

They're going hunting today. When James had announced it to his wife, Thomas had asked if he could come along. James had been ready to tell him no, but then his wife had started her typical complaints, about how tired she was of being the one always left to care for their brats, and James had finally relented, if only to shut her up.

He's regretting that decision already, his gaze running over the boy, his small, girlish body clad in outdoor garb, the clothes plainly too big for him, hanging loosely off his frame.

He'll lag behind. Slow things down, as he always does.

“Don't look at me boy.” He snarls, and Thomas looks quickly away. It only disgusts James more to see what a coward his son is. “Let's go.” He goes on, turning and heading towards the foyer. “And if you fall behind again, don't expect me to wait up for you. You're on your own then.”

He hears the boy mutter a frail “Yes, Sir.” 

He doesn't bother to look back and see if the child is keeping pace.

//

Thomas' side aches deeply from his attempts to keep astride his father as they make their way through the dense woods. His father refuses to slow, and Thomas knows better than to request it of him.

He hopes beyond hope with each of these ventures that, somehow, he will be able to show Father that he can be a good son, a worthy son, if only allowed the chance.

But Father, each time, seems hardly to even notice Thomas' presence. Hardly can be made to acknowledge him at all, never allowing him to handle any weaponry of any kind, to really at all participate. 

The only times he speaks to Thomas are to tell him to shut up and be still, and once more, the boy knows better than to disobey.

He wishes powerfully now he hadn't come along on this hunt at all, as for what must be the dozenth time, he loses his footing, falling into the mud and muck of the soft ground, barely catching himself on his hands, his palms by now scrapped raw and bloody.

Father doesn't even turn back to look at him, continuing his march forward, and Thomas feels his eyes sting with unwanted tears.

He wishes he were back home... wishes he were with Lucille.

Struggling back to his feet, his stumbles forward, pushing brush and thickets out of the way, unable to avoid them all, flinching back and swallowing down his cries as the thrashing branches whip against his face. Father, he knows, will be furious if he makes any noise to scare the animals away.

It will be several hours more before his father finally stops.

By then, Thomas shakes uncontrollably with cold, his hands and feet frozen, the skin of his palms and his face torn apart.

Father pays him no mind at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you so much to everyone who's read and/or reviewed so far! I really appreciate your support so much! This is an actually incredibly difficult relationship to write, because while Lucille is abusive and highly manipulative with Thomas, I also believe she really loves him. But her love is very possessive, and it's hard to strike a balance there. I hope I'm not completely butchering it, lol. I don't want to make Lucille seem like just a heartless monster. But I also want to highlight the contrast between her love, which is in a lot of ways very selfish, and Thomas', which is very loyal. And as the older sibling, and just in general, Lucille is very calculating and perceptive, whereas Thomas is very oddly innocent and naive. Anyway, enough rambling, just thought I'd explain a little where I'm trying to go with this. Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and if you get a chance, let me know your thoughts!


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